A recent Sunday lunch in London lead to a worrying discovery. My favourite haunt for a wine aperitif, 1707 Wine Bar in Fortnum and Mason basement, no longer opens on Sunday.
Forced into trying somewhere new, the Ritz doormen, just along Piccadilly took exception to my smart jeans (yet they tolerate Michael Winner). The Wolseley had welcomed us the day before (and warned me not to darken their door again in a rush). And picking on someone nearer my own age, Madonna’s ex-local didn’t appeal. I wanted wine.
In a frustrated fit of anxiety (that I would have to go to lunch without a wine warm-up) I remembered Selfridges, a mere 10 minute stroll up Park Lane.